


Matt Murdock, Food Critic

by Callistemon



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Baking, Fix-It of Sorts, Food Criticism, Post-Season/Series 02, Reality TV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callistemon/pseuds/Callistemon
Summary: In the wake of Nelson & Murdock's closure, Matt gets offered a spot as a judge on the Great American Bake-off.





	1. Everyone has an opinion

**Author's Note:**

> Someone commented that my current WIP is a little heavy, so I decided to post this three chapter work that I wrote last year and has been lurking in my FF folder ever since. I'll be tidying up and posting the subsequent chapters over the next couple of days.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Foggy, just hear me out,” Matt said, reaching across the table towards his former business partner.

Foggy threw his napkin on the table. “No, Matt. I don't care what you think. Everyone has an opinion, but right now, yours is worthless.”

Foggy angrily slid back his chair, not caring that the grinding squeal made Matt wince.

Matt said quietly, “aren't - aren't you going to finish your cake?” Matt had chosen New York's latest fad cake shop as a meeting place in order to curry favor. Foggy never turned down cake. But Foggy just tossed a wad of cash on the table and left without a further word.

Matt sank into his seat and ran his hands through his hair. That's not how the Great Apology was supposed to turn out. He'd had a lot of time to think in the week following Elektra's death what with Nelson & Murdock now shuttered for good. His great dream shattered. Matt shook his head. _Their_ great dream.

Matt took a sip of his coffee. They evidently put more effort into their cakes than their coffees, he thought. But beggars can't be choosers, and unlike Foggy who had landed on his feet, Matt was highly aware that he was currently unemployed and saddled with the debts of their failed business that he had no means of paying. There was no point in wasting food. He pulled the cake towards him and took a bite.

He'd barely had a chance to chew when his phone rang. "Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen..." He fumbled in his pocket and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he answered his phone. Classy.

"Hey," Matt said shyly. They were still feeling around their relationship since his revelation a few days earlier.

"Hey, Matt," Karen said softly. "Did you talk to him?"

"Mmm yes."

"And?"

A woman bumped into Matt's shoulder as she was threading her way to the table behind her. "Sorry," she said, doing a double take as he raised his head and she spotted his dark glasses and cane upon the table. "I'm so sorry," she said again, but Matt just waved her off with a smile. His smile turned into a cringe as she sat down, grinding her chair into the polished floor with an ear-splitting squeal. Why couldn't people just pick up the damn chairs.

Karen said, "Matt, are you there?"

"Oh, yes, sorry... distractions. Uh yeah, it didn't go so well."

"Even with the cake?"

"He abandoned his cake, gold leaf and all."

There was a silence from the other end of the phone. Foggy never abandoned cake. "Uh, I'm - I'm sorry to hear that. Uh, how is it - the cake?"

"Oh, it's great."

Karen gave a small laugh. "High praise indeed from Matt Murdock."

"I'm not that fussy," he said.

"Really?"

"Okay, moderately fussy. But really, this is good."

Matt could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. "Describe it to me," Karen asked.

"Uh, okay. It's a coffee cake. Layered." He took another bite, chewing slowly and allowing the layers of sponge and cream fillings to melt across his tongue. "The sponge is light. Made from fine sugar, but not too sweet - just enough spring to soak up the brandy. There's a slight tang of lemon rind, but I don't think that's deliberate - it might be a contaminant from another cake." He paused and concentrated on the layers. "There are a couple of creamy layers - a chocolate ganache and a coffee cream. The chocolate used for the ganache is topnotch, but the cream is cheap and lacks depth. They didn't skimp on the butter in the coffee cream though. It's a French style butter with a hint of vanilla alongside the coffee. The coffee is likely sourced from Indonesia - it has that slightly earthy taste. They've included fine granules of coffee so that there's a bit of texture to the cream - I don't know how that translates to the look of the cake, but personally I don't think the cake needs that additional texture. The layers of wet sponge, semi-solid ganache and melt-in-your-mouth cream provide more than enough textural diversity. That said, so often these cakes are over-chilled so that the butter creams are too solid for the texture of the sponge, but this one's warmer - probably not to health regulation temperatures," he laughed, "but perfect for the cake-"

"Okay, stop now," Karen interrupted. "All I want is that cake."

"I could bring you a slice," Matt offered, silently hoping that she'd say no. He had exactly $9 in his wallet.

"No, it's okay. How about we visit together another time."

Matt smiled. "I'd like that."

 

They hung up and Matt finished his cake in silence. The waitress arrived and Matt pushed the wad of cash that Foggy had left towards her. "Uh, how much - how much more do I owe you?" 

"Oh, that's way too much, sir." She took a couple of the bills and pushed the rest back towards him.

Matt blushed. Whatever Foggy had left, it'd been deliberately excessive.

He stood up, careful not to drag his chair along the newly polished stone floor. As he unfurled his cane, the woman who'd sat behind him cleared her throat, "excuse me, sir." Matt stopped, not sure if she was directing the greeting at him. 

"I couldn't help overhearing your description of the cake."

"Oh..." Matt trailed off, not really sure how to react to this blatant admission of eavesdropping. He supposed he couldn't really judge. 

"Sorry. I just wanted to say that your description was incredible. Could you really identify the coffee source, or were you just spinning it?"

"Oh, uh, the coffee from Indonesia has quite a distinctive taste – it’s dark and smoky. I much prefer it to the nuttiness of the Colombian beans used by most New York roasters," Matt said.

The woman gave a small titter. "I know what you mean." There was an awkward pause and then she said, "My name's Anne Crawford. I'm the producer of a reality food show. We're on the hunt for an extra judge - an opinionated judge - and I think you might just be right for the job."

"Oh, thanks, but I'm not really-"

"What do you do at the moment," she asked, looking him up and down. He hadn't shaved for nearly a week and he was wearing slightly ratty clothes.

"Lawyer," he said, but his voice choked as he said the word. In the subsequent silence, he could feel her critical eyes looking him up and down once again. His presentation didn’t exactly scream ‘working professional.’

"Well, the job wouldn't be full time, but pays well," she said. “Negotiable, of course.”

"I don't think my opinion really counts."

"Your analysis of that cake tells me otherwise." She shifted in her chair, "look, Mr-?"

"Murdock."

"Look, Mr Murdock, everyone loves a critic. You have opinions - interesting opinions - and I'm sure America would love to hear them." Matt shook his head again, but she was undeterred. She rustled in her purse. "Here's my card- oh, uh, I can read the number out."

Matt held his hand out. "The card's fine." He pocketed it and said, "I'd better keep going. It's nice to meet you, Ms Crawford."

 

* * *

 

“What are you up to?” Karen said as soon as Matt answered the phone that evening.

“Nothing,” Matt said truthfully. He’d been sitting cross-legged in just his boxer shorts, trying and failing to meditate the time away.

“Do you want some company doing nothing?”

Matt uncrossed his legs and stretched them out to the floor with a yawn. “Sure.”

“Cool. See you in a minute.”

Matt ambled into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. He checked the fridge. There was a single beer, half a stick of butter, a lemon, a jar of ancient mustard, and the end of a carton of milk. Pathetic, he thought, trying to work out if he had time to whip out and grab some more beer before Karen arrived. Thanks to Foggy’s generous ‘tip’, Matt reasoned he could probably afford it.

Before he even closed the fridge, there was a knock on the front door. “Uh, coming,” he said, heading towards his bedroom to grab some clothes.

“Quick, Matt. I’m about to drop-” There was a crash, and Matt skidded towards the door.

Karen was juggling a pizza box and a grocery bag, while her handbag lay sideways on the floor. A lipstick rolled slowly towards the stairwell, and Matt dashed after it. “Matt, priorities please,” Karen said, balancing the edge of the pizza box against the doorway. “Oh yeah, sorry,” Matt said, taking the pizza from Karen and holding the lipstick out for her. “I’ll swap you,” he said, and Karen chuckled as she plucked the lipstick out of his hand and replaced it with the heavy grocery bag.

“When you said a minute, I didn’t think you mean literally-”

“I know.”

“What if I said no,” Matt said with a small twitch of his mouth.

“I’d have come anyway.” She looked him up and down. “Nice boxers.”

“I thought a minute meant-”

“Matt it’s fine,” Karen laughed. She slowed as she focused on the scars across his torso. “Shit. Are they all from…” she lowered her voice, “Daredevil?”

Matt put the pizza box and groceries on the table. “I should get some clothes on.”

“Matt, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Karen said, kicking herself for already compromising a delicate situation. They were still negotiating the terms of their friendship following his confession, and they were both dancing around some of the more contentious issues at hand. Whatever the case, Matt had said he was giving up Daredevil, and Karen – always seeking out danger and instability – wanted to know more about his alter ego.

Matt returned in a t-shirt and sweats, and Karen noticed that he’d adorably tucked his sweats into his socks once again. It was a small thing, but it was enough to trigger a new wave of affection for the man.

She cleared her throat, “uh, I got some beer, and there were some nice apples…never mind,” she sighed. “How’s it going?”

Matt wandered over to the bag and drew out a couple of the beers, cracking the tops and handing one to Karen. “I’m already bored,” he admitted. “I’ve applied for a temp job – banal stuff, but it’ll do for now. It’s no-” Matt paused. He didn’t want to complete the sentence. Of course it was no Nelson & Murdock. They both knew that. Time to move on.

Reading Matt’s thoughts, Karen pushed the pizza box towards Matt and changed the subject. “Now that I know about your tastebuds, I wonder if I should have gone with something more classy.”

Matt smiled. “I’m not too fussy. I can’t be.” He flipped the top and grabbed a piece. “Actually, we should sit down,” he said, embarrassed at his failed sense of hospitality.

After they’d settled on the couch, Karen said, “do I want to know what’s in the pizza?”

“Noooo, definitely not,” Matt laughed.

Karen gave a nervous laugh. “That bad?”

“It’s not bad. Just- please don’t make me concentrate on it.”

Karen gave Matt a playful punch on the shoulder. “I can do this now, right?”

“Probably don’t do it in public. I don’t think hitting a blind man would go down too well,” Matt joked. Karen squirmed in her seat.

They ate in silence until Matt said, “oh I forgot to say, I got a job offer today.”

“The temp job?”

“No a spot on TV. Someone overheard our conversation and offered me a job judging something called American Bake Off.”

Karen stared, not sure if he was joking or not.

“Uh, I guess that silence means you disapprove?” Matt said.

“No, no… I just – really?”

“Yeah, I took her card just to be polite, but-”

“You’re going to do it,” Karen said.

“What? No. I-I-there’s no way.”

Karen laughed. “Matt, you _have_ to do it.”

“Karen… you’re not serious.”

“Think about it, Matt. It’s perfect for you: you’re a wizard when it comes to taste, you speak well in public, you’re opinionated, you’re handsome, and you have an amazing back story – television loves a back story.”

A pink tinge was growing on Matt’s cheeks.

“ _And_ you need a job,” Karen added.

“As a lawyer,” Matt corrected.

“Would you rather tell people what you think about their coffee layer cakes or would you rather do document review?”

“Point taken,” he said before taking a healthy swig of beer.

 

The next morning, Matt dialed the number on the card. “Oh, good morning Ms Crawford. My name’s Matt Murdock… yes… oh… just Matt is fine…. In fact I would like to…. Where should I come to… and that’s in Queens?” Matt quickly flipped open his laptop and typed in the address. “Yes… no, I can get there just fine. Thanks… see you tomorrow.” He hung up with an audible exhale, and said to himself, “well, that was different.”


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time since his last court appearance, Matt took the time to properly shave and comb. He wasn’t sure if his attentive grooming was about impressing the producers enough to get a place on the television show, or more about his own vanity.

Truth be told, his motivation for going to the interview was partly selfish. Foggy’s parting words, _“everyone has an opinion, but right now, yours is worthless,”_ had hurt, and a small spiteful part of Matt wanted this job just to prove Foggy wrong. Matt shook his head. No, spite was a sin. He threw his razor hard at the bathroom wall so that it ricocheted off the tiles with a clatter. Taking a few deep breaths, he wandered back into his room and pulled out the suit he’d eventually chosen after a few hours deliberation and more than one phone call to Karen.

The grooming obviously worked. Matt could hear more than one heartbeat increase as he wandered into the meeting with Anne and the other producers. He smiled, summoning all the charm he could. The heartbeats increased.

The meeting was less formal than expected. They implied he already had a place on the panel, but they still asked him to give them his opinion on a couple of cakes, claiming that Anne’s account of Matt’s tasting notes was so extraordinary that they wanted to see it in person.

After Matt had given his evaluation of the baked ricotta cheesecake (“overcooked and thus too dry”), chocolate walnut brownies (“could be given more depth with a shot of coffee or better quality chocolate”), and victoria sponge (“extraordinary cake, pity about the store-bought jam”), he sat up straight and said, “so, why me? Isn’t half the point of these shows the look of the food?”

“That’s what I-” one of the men said from the corner, but he was interrupted by Anne.

"That's your edge, Matt. We all know that the market is near oversaturated with cooking shows, each with their panel of celebrity – or soon to be celebrity – chefs and commentators. It's boring. No, you add something new. Your fellow judges can be the eyes. We want your expert opinion on the taste. Your other senses are enhanced when you lose your sight, right?"

"No, that's a myth," Matt said, an edge of irritation in his voice.

"Oh, oh well. You certainly give the impression that your taste is enhanced."

"I just concentrate," Matt said bluntly.

Anne raised her eyebrows. "As we all should," she said brightly. "Mindful eating. We should all do a bit more of that."

Matt's eyeroll was hidden behind his glasses. He forced a smile, and said, "so, if I were to take you up on this offer – the emphasis on _if_ – what are the conditions and how much do you pay?"

"Ah yes, the lawyer," she said. "Darren will go over the contract now," she said gesturing at her colleague, who wandered over with a stack of braille print outs. "We got it printed for you especially," she said indulgently.

Matt didn't respond to the last comment. If he were being honest, he would have said, 'so you should.' Instead, he started reading in silence, quickly skimming the contract. When he got to the bottom, he stacked it and put one hand on top. "I'll take this with me if you don't mind."

"Not at all,” Anne said, a smile in her voice. “The thing is - I wish I could tell you to take your time, but we need to get the show on the road. The call out for participants goes out next week and we want to start promoting you as soon as possible. You'll look _great_ on a billboard."

Matt smiled and stood up. "I'll make my decision within the next couple of days," he said, holding his hand out to Anne. He had every intention of taking the job, but the lawyer in him wanted to negotiate just for the sake of it. The fees were astronomic – the initial signing fee alone would cover all the Nelson & Murdock debts with some left over. But again, he could probably squeeze more out of them – for sport, he told himself. It wasn't greed, it was just doing what he did best.

 

* * *

 

"They put makeup on me, Karen," Matt complained over a beer at Josie's two weeks later. They'd introduced him to his fellow panel members and had shot a couple of promotional advertisements ahead of the main marketing blitz.

Karen laughed. "You can't complain, Matt. You wanted to do it."

"Actually, you wanted me to do it," Matt argued. "I was ready to toss Anne's business card in the trash."

"Sure you were," Karen muttered.

Matt shrugged and slid off the stool. "Want another?"

"Sure," Karen said. "As long as you don't think it's going to ruin your superhero face," she teased.

"Ergh, I should never have told you that," Matt said. "I think Anne was joking."

When Matt returned with another couple of beers, he said a little cautiously, "they said you could come on set – see the introduction of the first episode filmed. There won’t be any cooking, but I-I’ll... I’ll be there," Matt eventually finished

"What? Attend as a reporter?"

"As a friend. Er, they don't know you're a reporter. I didn’t mention you by name."

"You should ask Foggy," Karen said.

Matt choked on his mouthful of beer. "No, I don't think – I don't – no, he wouldn't want to see me."

"How do you know?"

"Karen, leave it," Matt snapped.

Karen raised her eyebrows. "Okay," she said in a voice that suggested it was anything but okay.

Matt took a long swig of his beer. "So, are you going to come or not?"

Karen smiled. "I'd love to."

 

* * *

 

Matt wrinkled his nose as his face was dusted with powder. “Is this really necessary? It’ll affect my sense of taste.”

“Really?”

Matt nodded and the makeup artist huffed in annoyance. “Keep your head still,” she said. “If we don’t put this on, you’ll be all shiny in the light.”

“That’s fine with me,” Matt grumbled.

She finished up her work in silence, not even saying hi to Karen when she arrived, nervously clearing her throat to announce her arrival. “Hey, Matt. You’re looking spiffy.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “Apparently not shiny though.”

The makeup artist ignored the jab, applying a final dusting to his cheekbones before exiting the room without a word.

Matt immediately replaced his glasses and stood up with a stretch.

“You nervous?” Karen asked.

Matt wiggled his hand. “A little.”

“At least you get to wear your glasses,” she said.

“That was a bit of a fight. Apparently they reflect the light.”

“And the cameras behind the scenes,” Karen said, cottoning on.

“Exactly. So they have a replica pair on set with lenses that don’t reflect as much…apparently.” He sighed. “Anne says my glasses are good for personal branding… or something. I don’t know…”

They were interrupted by a pimply-faced youth, who announced that Matt was needed on set now, apologizing three times for disturbing them. Matt gave him what he hoped was a friendly smile and said, “lead the way.”

After being dusted with copious amounts of powder again on set, Matt leaned against one of the many kitchen benches and listened to the nervous conversations from the contestants’ corner. He could hear Karen’s steady breathing from the small group of friends and family members who were here to see the introductory pre-cooking sequences filmed – after that, the set would be in total lock down. Matt raised his fingers subtly in a gesture of hello, and Karen whispered back, “hi” at a volume only audible to Matt. He felt a wave of regret as he thought about how much Foggy would enjoy something like this. Foggy used to watch reality TV religiously at college. Foggy’s obsession drove Matt crazy, but here Matt was - a judge on the very type of show he used to abhor. He hung his head, trying to block out the thought of Foggy and all the regrets-

“Matt,” someone said, touching his arm. Matt flinched, too lost in thought to register the person’s approach.

“Sorry,” the set assistant said. “I-I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

Matt gave a small nod of his head.

“Can-can I – you’re wanted over here.”

Matt closed his eyes. A little training wouldn’t go astray. He forced a smile, and said, “you’ll have to lead me to _over here_. I’ll take your arm.”

One they were ‘over here’, Matt was once again pounced upon by the fashion director, who straightened his jacket and asked him to unfold his cane. Following Matt’s earlier protests, they’d promised that he wouldn’t have to hold the cane for the entire series - it was just for these introductory shots. Apparently the cane was needed to signal Matt’s blindness for the audience at home, even if it wasn’t exactly necessary when standing still on set. It was something to do with marketing or something.

 

Three hours later and they’d filmed five one-minute segments that may or may not be used in the final cut. Matt was led back to the dressing room with a plate of sandwiches and a cup of terrible filter coffee. Even on the set of a cooking show, there was no guarantee of great catering, he’d quickly realized.

Karen used the break as an opportunity to escape. She mumbled an excuse to Matt, gave a quick peck on the cheek and said, “I hope the rest of the filming doesn’t take quite so long.”

Matt huffed in amusement. “Josie’s tonight?”

“Sure. Text me when you’re done filming.”

At 5pm, with the first cooking challenge only about to start, Matt realized that there was no way he’d be out of the studio before midnight, so reluctantly sent Karen a text requesting a raincheck.

 

The first challenge was a Victoria Sponge – a cake that Matt had helped his grandmother make on more than one occasion as a small child. Matt trailed behind the two other judges during the cooking scenes, listening intently and making the obligatory sniffing gestures at all the right moments for the cameras. He’d been told by the producers that he was the ‘nitpicky one’ when it came to taste. One of his fellow judges was a designer who was going to focus on the aesthetics and presentation. The other was a professional chef. They were meant to balance each other’s assessments and provide a certain difference to the usual three-chef judging panels of all the other reality cooking shows currently on television.

Whatever romantic ideas Matt still had about the job quickly came tumbling down over the next few hours as he was forced to contend with a series of sponge cakes that varied from chewy deflated messes, to overcooked, dry-as-a-bone monstrosities.

At cake number six, Matt took a bite of a sponge that had been filled with lemon curd. He licked his lips and breathed in through his nose. “Was there a reason you used lemon juice from a bottle, rather than squeezing your own?”

He could hear the pair’s heartbeats skyrocket. “Uh, lumps. We didn’t want to risk lumps.”

“You didn’t think to ask for a strainer to catch the pips and fiber?”

“Uh, no. I guess – uh…”

Matt pursed his lips, unimpressed. He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Nice consistency to the cream. I’m glad you didn’t feel it necessary to add sugar to the cream,” he said, referring to the last couple of cakes which were oversweetened. “The pure cream offsets the sweetness of the curd. Although the curd should have been more tart – something that only comes from using fresh juice. It takes less than a minute to put juice through a strainer.”

The pair nodded, one of them looking at the floor dismally.

“However, the cake is one of the best so far,” Matt continued. “Light, slightly chewy on the edge, but not overcooked. It’s excellent. Well done.” Matt smiled and the pair mumbled a thanks.

“The cake is certainly the most consistent in shape,” the aesthete judge, Roxanne, said. “It’s a perfect shade of brown, and I like the way you’ve covered it in icing sugar, rather than adding a top layer of cream.”

“I agree,” Spiro, the third judge said. “It’s important to let the cake shine, rather than burying it in heavy cream. Although you really should have used pure icing sugar, rather than the icing mix that includes cornflour.”

Matt nodded. “I can feel the very slight resistance of the cornflour against my tongue. The mix is good when you need a thickening agent for icings and so on, but not so good on its own.”

They had a minute’s break before the next assessment, and the makeup artist swooped in to reapply makeup to the judges’ lower faces. Matt held back his criticism as she applied yet another layer of perfumed powder to his chin. He was determined to find out if there was unperfumed makeup before this show was out.

The next pair had a passionfruit pulp and cream filling, which Matt praised as an alternative to the parade of jams (and one lemon curd) that had come so far. “However,” he said, tilting his head as he concentrated on the seeds. “The fruit has travelled a long way at this time of the year. The seeds are a little withered so you don’t get that delightful texture of soft fibers pillowing the plump seeds.”

Matt heard Anne huff a laugh behind the scenes. He frowned. He didn’t think the comment was funny.

“Cut,” the director called. “Matt, can you repeat that last comment without the scowling at the end.”

“I didn’t-”

“Rolling.”

Matt hesitated. He couldn’t remember what he’d said now.

“Cut.” A huff of frustration. “Matt, could you repeat what you said about the pulp please.”

“Uh, could you remind me.”

“Never mind,” Anne whispered to the director. “We’ll get it later. Let’s keep going.”

Matt took a deep breath. He’d lost his train of thought. Fortunately, Roxanne chimed in with a critique of the carefully manicured top layer. “It could do with a bit of spontaneity,” she observed. “Trying to arrange the seeds into something coherent is a bit like trying to herd cats. You should embrace it. Soft peaks with valleys of pulp perhaps.”

“I disagree,” Spiro said. “I think it’s an admirable effort at herding cats.”

Matt chuckled. “Unfortunately, I can’t see them, but I do like the feel of the ‘cats’” – making air quotes with his fingers – “I like the even distribution of seeds – I mean cats,” Matt laughed, “through both a middle and a top layer. I think this is one of the circumstances where the top layer of cream and fruit - or preserve - is important.”

“I’m going to forever think of passionfruit seeds as cats now,” Spiro said to Roxanne with a laugh. “Thanks a lot.”

 

Matt didn’t make it home until after midnight, slumping on the couch with a beer. He was tired from the sixteen-hour day, but he was also too wired to sleep. On the day of Elektra’s funeral, he’d vowed to abandon his vigilante alter ego. In the weeks since, he struggled to cope with his nights alone on the couch, trying to block out the calls for help, the suffering, the pain. The late night filming was thus a welcome distraction. Matt downed the beer, then another. Eventually, he forced himself to bed, knowing full well that tomorrow was going to be just as intense.

* * *

 

With four fewer contestants, the second day started with what should have been a simple apple pie. The first pair made the French version – a tarte tartin – but were unable to turn it out of the pan in time, so the edges were burnt. Matt forced a good-humored laugh when Roxanne suggested he take a spoonful from the less burnt side. “Thanks,” he said, taking a delicate mouthful and trying to suppress a wince at the sweetness. “How much sugar did you put in this?” he asked, feeling for the nearby glass of water.

“Mmm… the usual,” one of the pair unhelpfully answered.

“Two cups,” the other said.

“Two _cups_.” Matt shook his head. He took a couple of sips of water, drawing out the suspense as much as possible. He’d used the same tactic in court. It always worked a treat.

“The perfect tarte tartin is caramelized,” he said as he put down the glass of water. He tried to look as confident as possible for someone who had only just tasted his first tarte tartin two weeks ago. He’d spent hours googling the history of the iconic French dish. He continued, “I don’t mind a slight burnt toffee taste, but it needs a balance between the natural sugars of the apple and the added sugar. Two cups is too much.”

“I don’t mind it,” Spiro said. “It needs some cream though to balance out the sweetness.”

Roxanne shook her head. “Too sweet for me.” She pointed at the ring of apples around the edge. “Aesthetically, a better tarte would have had concentric circles, or at least some kind of pattern.”

The second pair added sultanas to their pie. “I feel like I’m eating something my grandmother used to make,” Roxanne said. “She couldn’t cook to save herself, but she’d do this apple pie where she’d combine and tin of apples, some sultanas, and put it in a bought, pre-baked pastry shell.” Matt raised his eyebrows. Before his grandmother died at the age of six, she’d been an excellent cook, although there were the occasional mix-ups – like the time she put Chinese five spice in her apple pie instead of mixed spice. He’d never share that information on national television though. Family was sacred.

“The sultanas are a bit déclassé,” Spiro agreed. “They’re not bad, they’re just not great.”

Matt nodded. He racked his brains trying to come up with something critical but witty. “The pastry-” he started, before pausing and putting up his finger. He took another bite. “It’s a little thick, but it’s otherwise perfectly cooked. You used suet.”

“Like my grandma used to use,” the dumpling-like contestant replied.

“It’s gone out of vogue what with concerns about cholesterol and fat intake,” Spiro said. “It has its place though-”

“Along with duck-fat baked potatoes,” Matt said.

“Oh _yes_ ,” Spiro gushed.

Matt smiled, the panic subsiding. He’d been saved by that small pause to eat another bite. He could do this.

When they took a break for lunch (not that Matt could eat lunch after all the pie), Anne pulled him aside. “You’re doing great. You’re totally wowing people with your ability to pick ingredients. Keep it up. Feel free to bring out a bit more snark too.”

“Oh, I don’t- I don’t think I want-”

“Or not. Maybe you’re the nice guy. We’ll see…”

 

Over the next couple of days, Matt fell into the groove of judging. He’d barely eaten anything other than cakes and pies and whatever other baked goods ended up in front of him and the camera. There just wasn’t room. Before he signed up to the show, he assumed all the reality cooking series were filmed week-to-week – a schedule he would be totally on-board with. But no, this was to be filmed in a block and not screened on national television for another month. He was completely and utterly over sugary treats.

He moaned as much to Karen that weekend when they finally met up for post-filming beers.

“Foggy would be so jealous,” she said to shut Matt up. It worked. Matt clammed up and started picking at the label on his beer bottle.

“Why don’t you call him?” Karen persisted, never one to back down from a fight.

“He said my opinion is worthless,” Matt said. “Imagine what he’ll say if he learns what I’m currently doing.”

Karen leaned across the table. “Nooooo…. You’re not doing this because of Foggy, are you?”

Matt shook his head, trying to look innocent.

“That’s what he said at the cake shop. That’s why you took the position.”

“That’s not – no, of course not,” Matt said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, I hate to tell you Matt but he probably already knows about your new job. There’s a six-foot version of your face in a billboard right across from his apartment.”

“That’s not true,” Matt said, taking a quick swig of his beer.

“I thought you could hear lies,” Karen said.

Matt took another swig. He knew Karen’s heart didn’t waver, but it couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.

Karen slid her hand over to Matt’s. “Hey, do you want me to talk to him?”

“No… uh, I’ll work something out.” Matt downed the rest of the beer in one and gasped, “you want another?”

 

Two weeks later, they’d finished filming the series (and the crew and contestants had been threatened with all sorts of nasty consequences if they revealed the eventual winner). With the exception of the occasional scene refilming or promotional appearance, Matt was free to eat as many vegetables and as few cakes as he wanted. He felt decidedly heavier since filming started – the result of not just all the cake consumption, but also the lack of Daredevil activity. There was not a night that went past that he didn’t think about retrieving the suit from the trunk under the stairs, and the night he finished filming was even harder. He was wired, but once again facing unemployment, and the realization that his best friend was only blocks away, but oh-so-much-further in reality. Remembering his vow to avoid a repeat of the disastrous night that saw Elektra die and Matt burn the last of his bridges (or so he thought), Matt traipsed to Fogwell’s gym instead, determined to take his anger, frustration, and excess of sugar out on the ancient punching bags.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a nervous Matt who turned up at Karen’s the night of the first episode. He brought a six-pack of beer and a pizza as a nod to the night she’d convinced him to take the job in the first place.

“You don’t look shiny at all,” was the first thing Karen said as the judges were announced.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Kare.” He groaned as he heard the sound of his own voice. “I sound so weird.”

“Shhh… no one likes the sound of their voice,” Karen hissed. “Don’t think about it.”

“Oh my god. They’re including this _now?_ ” Matt said, leaning forward on the couch and burying his head in his hands.

“It’s your origin story,” Karen said, hitting him playfully in the knee. “I think it’s sweet.” There was a moment’s silence as they listened to a series of news clips: the accident, the Fisk trial… there was even a video of Matt speaking at his Columbia graduation.

“Where did they get that stuff?” Matt whispered, and Karen just tapped him on the knee again. “Shhh…”

 

Twenty minutes later and Karen was snickering over Matt’s passionfruit seed comment. “What’s so funny?” Matt asked. “I was being serious. Why do people find it funny?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Karen said sarcastically, “fibrous pillows? Uh, yeah… those two words alone.”

“You try describing the fibers around a passionfruit seed then.”

Karen sighed. “I can’t. That’s why you’re on the show and I’m not. You need a thicker skin, Murdock. How else are you going to get through tomorrow?”

Matt pursed his lips. She was right. There were going to be opinions, and he knew he wasn’t going to like them all.

 

* * *

 

A month into the screening, it was clear that the show was a ratings success. Matt was contacted by various popular media outlets, all clamoring to interview the handsome duck whose pithy comments had made him a minor celebrity. His automatic reaction was to turn the requests down, but eventually Anne got wind of the requests, and managed to convince him otherwise. Anne had a way of wearing him down… much like Karen, Matt concluded. And that’s how Matt found himself cooking a sponge cake on national television.

“You’re what?” Karen said, slamming her beer on the sticky table. She laughed at Matt’s tortured expression. “I can’t believe it. Matthew Murdock on breakfast television.”

“Shhh…” Matt hissed.

“Matt, it’s Josie’s. No one here cares about your baking show…. Apart from me, of course. And now you’re going to be on Sunrise Sally. Tell me, when are you filming?”

“Uh, next week. But I need you to – uh, can you – can you taste test for me?”

“You want me to judge you?”

Matt gave her a shy smile. “Yeah, I don’t want to screw up a sponge cake after everything I’ve said in the show.”

Karen shook her head. “You won’t screw it up.”

“Karen, please.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather Foggy as a taster? Let’s be honest here, he’s the better judge.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Matt said quickly. The conversation was over.

 

* * *

 

Matt’s entrance onto the Sunrise Sally set was met by applause, screams and women yelling, “I love you, Matt Murdock.” The noise was deafening, but he swallowed the pain and gave them a winning smile, navigating with his cane up to the dais where the presenter’s couch sat. He rested the cane against the couch as they’d asked him to do. Anne was right - the cane and glasses had become his own personal brand, for better or worse.

“Matt, you’ve had a few critics assume you can’t cook because you’re blind,” Sally said after the initial introduction. The live Sunrise audience booed in response, making Matt chuckle.

“Obviously, your audience thinks otherwise,” Matt said, nodding in their direction. “Thank you.”

“So tell us, how do you know if a cake is cooked or not?”

“Well, I time it for a start. My oven at home is fairly accurate, which is a help. I can obviously smell it baking – or burning,” Matt laughed. “Hopefully not burning,” he added. “The cake should spring back at the touch,” he said. “And of course, I test it with a skewer as well.”

“What about other food, meat for instance? You wouldn’t want to risk eating raw meat.”

“That’s a bit trickier. I don’t cook meat at home because my apartment is open plan and the smell gets everywhere, but if I did, the same principles of time, texture and smell apply. You adapt.”

“That’s really inspirational,” Sally gushed.

Matt shifted on the couch. “I – I don’t think inspirational is the right word. I just do things with the tools available to me.”

“And we’ve got some of those here today,” Sally said, not missing a beat. “Because you’re going to cook a sponge cake for us.”

Matt gave her a winning smile. “Indeed I am.”

 

“So you have talking scales and measuring cups,” Sally narrated as Matt got out his adapted kitchen equipment.

“It’s better than measuring the level of milk with my finger,” Matt pointed out. To demonstrate, he ran his finger down the inside of the measuring glass of milk, stopping when he made contact with the liquid. “It gets messy fast,” he said, wiping his hands on his American Bake-off branded apron.

“Tell us, who taught you this recipe?”

“That would be my grandmother,” Matt said.

“And is she watching at the moment?”

“Uh, no, she passed away when I was seven years old.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. But I’m sure she’d be very proud.”

“Mmm,” Matt hummed, busying himself with the ingredients.

“You grew up in an orphanage, is that right?”

Matt paused for a moment. “Yes,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. He’d specifically asked them not to going into his childhood.

“That must have been hard,” she continued.

Matt shrugged. “I was well looked after.”

“Did you continue your baking lessons there?”

“Uh, not really. It – there wasn’t much opportunity.”

“It’s great that you’ve got back into it in your adulthood then.”

“Mmm…” Matt grabbed the butter and started cutting it into fine cubes, tucking his finger tips under his knuckles so as not to cut himself.

“You’ve obviously developed ways to use a knife safely,” she observed.

Matt forced a smile. “Yes, I need all ten fingers.”

“Now, we’ve put braille stickers on the mixer for you,” she said as Matt finished measuring out all the ingredients. It was a lie. He’d predicted they wouldn’t have even thought of those kinds of requirements and had taken it upon himself to print some labels in case of such a situation. If he was going to promote ability and access, then he wanted to be as thorough as possible.

Half an hour later, Matt extracted the cake from the oven to the sound of a collective “oooh” and then a round of applause. He touched the top of the cake and it sprang back at his touch. “How does it look?”

“Perfect,” Sally said. “A cake that your contestants would be jealous of.”

“I don’t know about that,” Matt chuckled. “We should wait until we know for sure that I used sugar instead of salt.”

Sally pretended to look horrified. “Does that happen often?”

Matt huffed in amusement. “No, that was a joke. I- I use different jars and they’re labeled.”

“Well, this has been an informative experience, Matt,” Sally replied. “Ladies, and a couple of gentlemen, please give Matt Murdock, judge of the hit new show American Bake-off, a bit round of applause.”

Matt smiled and bowed before escaping the set and the ear-splitting screams.

 

* * *

 

“You have no idea, Karen. They were waiting for me outside. I have RSI from signing so many things.”

“There are worse problems to have, Matt.”

Matt took a sip of his beer in lieu of a response. Eventually, he said, “hey, so you know that pro bono client I told you about.”

“The kid who got poisoned?”

“Yeah, we’re heading to court tomorrow. It’s worth covering for _The Bulletin_ – if you’re interested, that is.”

“I’ll be there.”

 

* * *

 

Of course, with court came the increased chance of bumping into his old business partner, and because the universe was cruel like that, his triumphant win was immediately tempered by his quite literal collision with Foggy.

“Shit, sorry,” Foggy said, before he realized who he’d bumped into. “Matt,” he said softly. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d changed professions.”

“No,” Matt said, lifting his chin in response to Foggy’s cutting words. “I just won a case in fact.”

“That kid,” Foggy said. He knew that Matt was still practicing as an attorney then.

Matt nodded.

“Well, I- I should be going,” Foggy said, taking a step back. “Bye, Matt.” He disappeared down the hallway, just as Karen entered from the other end.

“You spoke to Foggy,” Karen said happily as a way of a greeting.

“Literally bumped into him, actually.”

“And?”

“I’m guessing you want a statement about the case,” Matt deflected. “Just give me two minutes to see my client off.”

 

That night, Matt was halfway through cooking an eggplant curry when there was a soft knocking at the door. Matt stopped and whispered, “no way.”

He opened the door to a nervous Foggy, who shifted on the spot for a good ten seconds before either of them thought to even say hi.

“Who wins in the end?”

Matt shook his head. “What?”

“Who wins – the show?”

“Oh, uh, I can’t say. Confidentiality agreements and all.”

Foggy nodded and hung his head.

Matt tilted his head. “You’ve been watching?”

“It’s hard not to with a massive billboard outside my apartment. Your head is like twenty times its normal size.”

“Karen keeps warning me not to get a swollen head.”

Foggy huffed in amusement, then caught himself.

After an awkward silence, Matt said, “do – do you want to come in? I have curry. Well, I will have curry. It’s still cooking – in fact I think it’s catching-” Matt hesitated, wanting to run to the stove but at the same time not wanting to leave this delicate moment at the door.

“Rescue the curry, Matt,” Foggy said, taking a step forward in acceptance of the offer. When Matt hesitated again, Foggy added, “I’m not going anywhere.” Matt took a deep breath, taking in the significance of those words. As Matt raced to the stove to save his curry, Foggy trailed behind, watching as Matt scraped the bottom of the pan. Once it was safe, Matt wordlessly retrieved a couple of beers from the fridge, handing Foggy a bottle as a kind of peace offering. Foggy stared at the bottle for a moment in silent debate. Eventually, he reached out, and Matt let out an audible exhale.

“Your knuckles on the poster,” Foggy started. “At first I thought maybe they’d photoshopped the usual scabs out, but then Daredevil stopped making the news. No sightings since-” Foggy took a deep breath “s-since December.”

Matt took a swig of his beer and returned to the curry, giving the pot a vigorous stir.

“Smells good,” Foggy said.

“Foggy, I’m sorry-”

Foggy held up his hand, “no, Matt. Enough.” He picked at the label. “Last year, you told me that we could move forward. Different circumstances, I know. I’m still mad with you about throwing the Castle trial and disappearing on me.”

“Foggy, I-”

“Let me finish, Matt.” Foggy took a deep breath. “I’ve missed you, Matt. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t forget you,” Foggy said with a bitter chuckle. “Your face is literally everywhere.”

“Sorry,” Matt said, hanging his head.

“Stop saying sorry,” Foggy hissed. “Just – just stop apologizing for a moment, would you?” He took a swig of his beer. “I’ve been watching American Bake-off.”

Matt straightened. “And- and what do you think?”

“I think you take on those contestants like they’re opposing council. I- I miss seeing that.”

Matt pursed his lips and gave the pot another vigorous stir.

Foggy pulled at the label on his beer bottle, debating his next move. Eventually, he ventured, “so what do you say, Matt? Shall we move forward… as friends?”

Matt’s mouth slowly changed into a hopeful smile. “Really?”

Foggy sighed. “Really. But I have one condition,” he added. Before Matt’s face could fall too hard, Foggy finished, “you have to bake me one of those sponge cakes.”

“Tonight?” Matt said genuinely.

“No, silly. Just-” Foggy waved his hand around, “whenever. I want commentary too.”

“Okay,” Matt said, his voice small, nervous, like the Matt who had turned up, nervous and willing-to-please on that first day at Columbia.

Within minutes, Foggy was muscling his way over to the stove, picking at the pot despite Matt’s protests. It wasn’t quite like old times, but there was hope.


End file.
